


But Only Half Complete

by ShyThrush



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: And he worries about Geralt a lot, But it can be read either way, Caring Jaskier, Caring!Jaskier, Competent Jaskier, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Friendship/Love, Gen, Geralt needs help sometimes too, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier can do medical things, Jaskier has complicated feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Kind of turns into romance, M/M, Monster of the Week, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sirens, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher racism, field medicine, injured geralt, injuries, kind of, monster hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyThrush/pseuds/ShyThrush
Summary: When Geralt fails to return after a hunt on a rainy night, Jaskier ventures out after him, only to discover that Geralt isn't as invincible as he would have Jaskier believe, and putting Jaskier in a position to care for his witcher's injuries and show Geralt that he is deserving of care and gentleness as much as anyone.OR Jaskier is finally given a turn to care for Geralt, and pours his heart and soul into helping his witcher feel better.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 58
Kudos: 870
Collections: Best Geralt





	1. Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a fic in forever, so I'm feeling particularly good about this one, but it would also be great to hear any comments you may have. I'll try and update every day/every other day as this fic is mostly written. Anyways, thanks for dropping by, please drop some kudos and comments (they give me life), and enjoy yourselves! Also, you can come hang with me on Tumblr at aloe-casia for more good whump content.
> 
> Jaskier realizes something may have gone wrong on a hunt he chose to stay behind for, and sets out to find his witcher and bring him back safely.

The nights were always longest as they drew to a close, Jaskier thought. Especially nights like these, after he had finished playing for the residents of whatever town he and Geralt stopped in for the night, and returned to his room alone, the echoes of music and laughter from downstairs still echoing in his ears, but the silence left by Geralt’s absence echoing even more. The rain pattered monotonously on the windowpane of their room, and as Jaskier set to the task of cleaning and replacing the strings on his lute, he couldn’t help but hear every banging door in the tavern below, every yell and laugh, listening for Geralt’s return.

Normally, he wouldn’t have stayed behind while Geralt when on a hunt, especially on a night like this. The thunderous exclamations echoing from the sky and the rain tumbling down in sheets promised for dramatics that Jaskier’s silver tongue and nimble fingers yearned to weave into a new ballad. However, they were dangerously low on coin, and the rain was more ice than water. Therefore, in a series of nonverbal protestations mostly consisting of dark looks and monosyllabic grunts, Geralt had insisted that Jaskier stay behind tonight so that they would have enough coin to not sleep out in the cold. Jaskier had also sensed another emotion seeping into the witcher’s reluctance to take him along, something he had been sensing more and more recently but couldn’t quite put a finger on. It was almost as though Geralt didn’t want to see the bard dragged out into the cold so soon after they had taken refuge in the warm inn, as though there was a small part of the witcher that was loath to be the cause of Jaskier’s discomfort, especially after several days spent out in the rain and howling winds. Of course, Jaskier wasn’t sure about this. After all, the witcher was notoriously obtuse to the needs of humans, most of the time. There was no way to be sure what his true intentions were. But Jaskier liked to think the witcher was warming to him, beginning to think of him as more than an irritatingly gnat that followed him around and wrote ridiculously exaggerated (Geralt’s words, not his) ballads about their exploits together.

And so, Jaskier was stuck here. Left behind while Geralt hunted down what, from what he had told the bard before he left, appeared to be a siren or similar water demon preying on the town’s young men. Jaskier sighed. Fighting a water demon on a night like tonight was a recipe for illness, in his opinion. Although, he supposed, that was one of the reasons Geralt had demanded he stay behind. He had never known the witcher to get so much as a chill, even on the coldest days, so there was no way that a little rain would deter him from taking on such a well-paid hunt. 

Taking a deep breath, Jaskier turned his attention away from the rain and the siren, and back towards his lute. Worrying for the witcher, his witcher, as he liked to think fondly within the privacy of his own mind, would not bring him back any sooner. Geralt was more than capable of caring for himself. Setting the lute aside for the night, Jaskier checked the courtyard of the inn through the rain-streaked window one more time. Seeing no sign of Geralt or Roach, he undressed, climbed into the bed, which creaked in agony under his less than substantial weight. He left Geralt’s spare cloak folded over the chair next to the bed, knowing the witcher would be wet and cold when he returned, and wanting something warm and dry. Then, Jaskier snuffed out the oil lantern, allowing the velvety darkness to engulf him, and the harsh patter of rain on the glass to lull his anxious mind to sleep.

~0~

The next morning dawned slowly for Jaskier, as he comfortably stretched his arms and tensed his leg muscles, weak from a satisfying sleep after so many nights spent out in the cold and the rain. Groaning luxuriously, he cracked an eye open, peering about for the witcher, who, even if he had not succeeded in completing his latest job, almost always returned in the night for some rest before venturing out again the following morning to complete the task. However, Geralt was nowhere to be found. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm his nerves, Jaskier rolled out of bed. Geralt was probably just having a bite to eat before heading back out, or brushing Roach in the stables, as he was wont to do in the early mornings. But, as Jaskier turned around, he saw Geralt’s dry cloak, folded neatly over the chair where the bard had left it the night before, and a gaping pit opened in his stomach, an open hole that sucked all the peace and happiness out of Jaskier’s heart. He knew Geralt would never have left without at least trying to dry off. The witcher had little regard for his own safety, but even he knew valued the warmth of a dry cloak.

Heart pounding, Jaskier clasped his own cloak tightly under his neck, swallowing fearfully. Grabbing his pack, which contained only his own clothes, some dry jerky and very few healing herbs, the bard turned to rush from the room, stopping only to grab Geralt’s own cloak from its resting place on the back of the chair. Then, he sped down the stairs, taking them two at a time, arriving in the common room of the inn in a state of chaos that caused even the unflappable old innkeeper to look up from polishing dirty tankards at the bar.

“What’s the matter, bard?” He asked, clearly displeased with the disturbance to the peace of his other guests, “Leaving so soon? As I recall, you promised me another night of song to pay for your room and food. Room and board for a witcher don’t come cheap in these parts.”

Jaskier, whose mind was running through a million possibilities of potential disaster a minute, had little time to spare for the innkeeper’s sourness towards Geralt. This far North, it was almost impossible to find inns willing to let a witcher stay, even when said witcher was dealing with the town’s local pest problem. Jaskier slammed his fist down on the bar, causing the sullen expression on the innkeeper’s age-worn, leathery face to be replaced by outright anger, and perhaps a little fear.

“Do you have a horse?” Jaskier growled, trying his best to imitate the intimidating face that was usually Geralt’s jurisdiction when trying to get something he wanted, “And directions to where you sent the witcher? He has not returned since last evening.”

“What’s another dead witcher to me?” The innkeeper muttered under his breath. However, at another warning look from Jaskier, his shoulders sagged and he relented, “Take the black mare in the back of the stable. Her owner died in a brawl several months back. And South along the river until you come across the weeping willow. That’s where folks have been saying the siren’s made her lair.”

Pushing a couple coins from his earnings last night reluctantly across the bar, Jaskier hurried out to the stables, and having barely checked that the black mare’s tack was sounds, he was off, galloping through the village and down a dirt track that followed the rushing river South, away from the pale faces pressed against windows as they watched yet another young man leave down the river where so many had already met their fate.

~0~

It was nearly an hour later on, when Jaskier’s cheeks were flushed and numb from the icy wind and drizzle, that he finally saw a massive weeping willow loom up in the distant fog, its branches waving disconcertingly in the wind, like the arms of a woman beckoning Jaskier home. However, so focused was he on his task and the fear rolling in his gut at the fact that he had not, as he had hoped, simply encountered Geralt on the track as he headed back into town, he barely saw the tree until it was looming right in front of him. Pulling his steed out of the slightly uncontrolled gallop he had urged her into, the bard dismounted on shaky legs, a new pit forming in his stomach even as his heart pounded with fear in his chest.

Standing under the branches of the weeping willow was Roach, soaking wet, with no sign of her rider anywhere. Leading his own mount to where Geralt’s horse stood, he gently reached out to her.

“Here, Roach,” he whispered gently, extending his hand for her soft nostrils to explore, “it’s just me, nothing to be afraid of. Have you seen our witcher anywhere?”

Roach, unsurprisingly, did not offer any comment. However, her eyes were large and rolling with fear, and Jaskier knew that Geralt would never have left her out overnight in the rain and the cold. There was definitely something wrong here. 

Leaving both horses on the bank, Jaskier turned towards the river, which calmed here from rapids and raging torrents into a gentle black pool, deep and surrounded by rocks and leftover bits of a beaver’s dam. However, as he approached the bank, and the swirling mist and drizzling rain parted to afford him a better view, his blood ran cold.

Lying next to the river, covered in muck and filth, was the body of a woman, her intestines spilling out across the leaf-covered bank, sticky with black blood, the colour and consistency of tar. Her blue face was marred by slits, which Jaskier was horrified to realize were probably gills. One webbed hand reached out, tipped by wicked claws, and lying several feet away from her outstretched hand was Geralt, soaked with icy rain and a sticky red substance which oozed across his black leather jacket. He lay in a tangle of his own sword, blood, and slime that Jaskier assumed came from the dead siren, and blood poured from a wicked gash that stretched across his leather-clad chest and shoulder, and down one arm. There was also blood oozing from a cut across his forehead, standing out all the more for the stark contrast between the redness of the blood and the silver of his soaked hair. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed, heart pounding, “Oh, fuck, Geralt, what the fuck did you do?”

Leaping over the dead siren, Jaskier ran his hands over Geralt’s prone form, trying his best to mentally triage his friend even as bile rose in his throat. How long had Geralt been like this, out in the cold and the rain, bleeding until the ground underneath Jaskier’s feet squelched red? 

As Jaskier ran his hands down Geralt’s left leg, he found that in addition to his bleeding injuries, the witcher’s knee was swollen and discoloured, the kneecap twisted out of alignment, almost sideways. Jaskier swallowed back his nausea and fear; he had become decently adept at sewing up cuts over the past months of travelling with his witcher, but he had no idea to to deal with what he assumed was a broken knee and probably torn or strained muscles as well. Fearfully, he turned to retrieve the horses, only to hear a whisper of a breathy groan when he turned his back. Nearly jumping out of his skin, Jaskier whirled, but didn’t notice any change in his friend. He knelt back down.

“Geralt,” he whispered gently, pushing some of his friend’s bloodsoaked hair off his brow, “Geralt, can you hear me?”

Jaskier was rewarded by an every-so-gentle fluttering of the witcher’s dark lashes against his pale cheeks, followed by a slight squeezing together of his brows in pain. Ever so slowly, Geralt pushed his eyes halfway open, squinting with unfocused golden orbs, tracking something that seemed to be behind Jaskier’s head. However, his eyes only remained open for a moment before what little blood that remained in his face drained away, and he squeezed them weakly back shut.

“So dizzy…” he gasped, barely audibly, voice almost lost in the pattering of the rain. 

Jaskier’s heart nearly ripped in two, seeing his witcher, normally invincible, to the point where he would refuse any of Jaskier’s well-intentioned help, brought so low. Gently, he brushed the rest of Geralt’s hair away from his face and the bloody cut, realizing by the bruising surrounding it that he must have taken a significant blow to the head, probably from one of the surrounding rocks. Realizing that staying out here in the rain and cold was probably doing Geralt no favours either, Jaskier pushed down the panic bubbling in his chest at the thought of serious head wounds, and began to try to formulate a plan that would allow him to get Geralt back to the village quickly and safely.

“Wait here,” he murmured gently, “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Geralt groaned softly again, which Jaskier tried to imagine was one of the good-natured noises of indignation the witcher would usually make when the bard said something equally as ridiculous. Standing on shaky legs, he ventured back to the willow, where he untied Roach, and led her over to her master.

“Help me out here, would you Roach?” The bard implored.

Gazing at him with delicate eyes, she huffed softly and proceeded to kneel gently next to her fallen witcher, stopping only to nuzzle him gently. Geralt lifted a limp hand to her nose, and managed to open his eyes again, if only half-mast and blinking heavily as he struggled to track any movement in what Jaskier was sure was a tipping and nauseating world. Trying to avoid as many of his wounds as possible, Jaskier wrapped his arms around the witcher, and, using all his strength, helped his friend to sit against his chest, feeling more concerned than ever as Geralt’s face paled and his head lolled back against the bard’s shoulder, even as he retched slightly and spat on the leaves.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier said guiltily, rubbing his friend’s back gently, “Just a little further onto Roach and we’ll get you back to the inn.”

Geralt nodded, wincing when the motion jarred his head.

“Get on...with it,” he gasped, in between shaky breaths.

“Alright,” Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s waist, not missing the groan his friend gave as the bard’s hands brushed over the inflamed cut on his shoulder, “Lean on me. Your left knee’s in a bad way, so just let me help get you up, and keep your eyes closed.”

Jaskier had had enough painful morning following drunken revelries to know how much a change in altitude could affect an aching head. As gently as he could while lifting a man nearly twice his size to his feet, Jaskier helped his friend over to Roach, where Geralt did his best to brace himself on his horse’s flank while Jaskier unceremoniously shoved him up, dignity be damned. Once mounted, Geralt sagged forward onto Roach’s neck, swallowing reflexively and squeezing his eyes shut against the growing nausea, all while wrapping his uninjured arm protectively around his injured shoulder and side, the other arm hanging bloody and useless at his side. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt ground out painfully, “I can’t...stay up here. Need you to...tie me on.”

Jaskier looked up from his own mare, alarmed. He had never heard Geralt, proud to a fault, ever make such a request.

“Oh, right, of course,” He fussed, removing a length of rope from the pack he had brought with him, thanking the Goddess that he had the presence of mind to bring the pack along at all, “Just...stay put.”

Carefully, he wrapped the rope around Geralt’s slumped form, securing it around the stirrup leathers. Noticing the awkward angle at which Geralt’s left leg extended, Jaskier also looped the rope around his calf, so at least he wouldn’t have to tense his broken knee to keep from falling off. He also draped the warm, dry cloak he had brought with him from the inn over Geralt’s trembling shoulders, eliciting a groan from the witcher. Realizing there was no way Geralt would keep from slumping off the horse even secured as he was, Jaskier placed the witcher’s swords and pack on his own mare’s saddle, tied her behind Roach, and began to lead Roach forward with one hand on Geralt’s uninjured arm, feeling with some concern the heat emanating through the witcher’s jacket despite the cold of the rain.

“We’ll be back soon, Geralt,” Jaskier began monologuing, mostly to keep his mind off his pounding heart and the fear he felt for his witcher, “Just try to rest if you can, I’ll take care of everything else.”

Geralt lifted his head weakly off Roach’s neck, hands fisting in her mane as they set off and his wounds and head were jostled. He reached down and rested a shaking hand on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice thick with nausea and fever, amber eyes clouded and struggling to focus. 

“Of course,” Jaskier bit his cheek to keep a small smile hidden inside. Then, placing a steadying hand on Geralt’s arm again, they set off, through the drizzling and miserable rain, back to the relative safety of the inn.


	2. Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier manages to get Geralt back to the inn, and does his best to make his witcher comfortable and tend to his injuries.

As soon as he began to regain more of his senses, and his vision no longer swirled kaleidoscopically in front of him, Geralt knew he was well and truly fucked. Vaguely, he could hear Jaskier’s worried voice swimming aimlessly above him, flitting to and fro like a leaf in the wind, and leaving him dizzy and breathless trying to follow its sound. His whole body was soaked and cold, and his shoulder felt uncomfortably warm, heat radiating from it so much that he wanted to turn his head, move away from it, but trying to do so just resulted in his vision tunneling in and nearly blacking out. Geralt bit back what he was rather ashamed to admit was probably a whimper, mostly out of consideration for Jaskier. There had been many times before when he had woken from a fight and faded in and out for several days, too weak and ill to move. He only hoped Jaskier had the presence of mind to get out of here before the scavengers arrived, both for him and for the dead siren.

Suddenly, Geralt felt something soft brush up against his aching shoulder, leaving warm dampness in its wake. Reaching up with a considerable effort, he discovered Roach’s velvety nose poking at him with concern. Or, at least he thought it was Roach. Even opening his eyes slightly to try and discern whether it was her caused the whole world to rock and tip, and made Geralt feel very ill, and effect that was only compounded when he felt the bard lift him up onto his shoulder, Geralt too far gone to even feel embarrassed when his head flopped limply backwards, banging against Jaskier’s shoulder blade and making his head swim all the more. Geralt swallowed back nausea and tried to keep his eyes closed as he felt himself being maneuvered onto what he assumed was Roach’s back. Suddenly, a whole new host of aches and pains made themselves known, focusing mainly on his left leg. Geralt had broken enough bones in his lifetime to know the distinct pain, but he couldn’t muster more than a mild feeling concern as he felt his broken knee twist, sprained muscles smarting as he tried to keep his seat. Through the dizzy, feverish pain, he vaguely realized he was instructing Jaskier to tie him onto Roach, at which point he felt himself pitch forward onto his beloved mount’s warm neck, supported only by the rope Jaskier wound around his waist and leg. There was something very comforting about Jaskier’s constant chatter as he went about this task, a welcome friendliness to a trait about the bard that normally drove Geralt to near distraction. He must remember to properly thank his bard when he no longer felt as though he were two paces from death’s door. As it were, he struggled to open his eyes, swallowed his rising nausea as he saw the world flying around him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, wincing internally at how rough his voice sounded. Jaskier looked up at him, smiled, said something back, rested his warm hand on Geralt’s trembling one.

It was at that point that the cold finally overwhelmed the witcher, every muscle in his aching frame tensing to shiver against the rain permeating his clothes, even the warm cloak Jaskier had kindly draped over him. Geralt fought for a moment to keep his eyes open, but Roach’s mane was soft on his fevered cheek, and his body was tired, and he was unlikely to be much more than a nuisance by trying to stay awake anyways, as he felt too ill do more than keep his eyes closed and make an attempt to stay on Roach of his own volition. Jaskier’s voice was still filtering through his hazy subconscious, and Geralt finally allowed himself to slip into a semi-restful state, knowing that while there had been many days where he would have been left alone to tend to himself in such a state, today was not one of them.

~0~

Later, Geralt was not able to say for how long he lay, semi-aware and feverish, astride Roach while Jaskier led them ever onwards into the freezing rain and mist. At some point, though, his knee began to ache too fiercely, and his shivering became too violent for him to simply ignore the pain. Using his good arm, the witcher half pushed himself up on Roach’s neck, allowing his sore head to rest on his chest. Jaskier looked up from where he stood at Roach’s shoulder, looking taken aback and more than a little afraid.

“Oh, no you don’t, Geralt,” he grumbled, and Geralt could feel his hands pushing him back down onto the support of Roach’s neck, “One fall and I’ll be partially responsible for the death of the White Wolf of Rivia. That is not a ballad that needs to be composed, and certainly not by me.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, feeling vaguely confused. He had fallen from Roach many times before, and it had never resulted in his death. 

“Jaskier,” he muttered, “Where the fuck are you taking me? I’d be much better off...not on this fucking horse.”

Roach whinnied a vague reproach and tossed her head, nearly causing Geralt to black out as his head was jostled again. Jaskier steadied him with a concerned look, shoving him none to gracefully back upright in the saddle.

“We’re heading back to Lindenvale,” Jaskier explained, his eyebrows scrunched together, “I know that riding must hurt, but we have to get you back to the inn. I think you’re running a fever, and we can’t stay out in this weather if you’re getting ill on top of everything else.”

Geralt huffed.

“Witchers...don’t get ill.” He forced the words out between lips and a tongue that no longer seemed to want to cooperate. He knew Jaskier was right. There was heat emanating from his shoulder, and his trembling was not just from the cold rain. Geralt slumped, aching and defeated, back against Roach’s neck, no longer able to allow himself to simply drift. The movement of the horse aggravated his wounds, and the heat of his fever kept him caught in a half-state, not awake but neither asleep. He barely even noticed when they passed off the dirt track and under an archway. Vaguely, he heard Jaskier’s bell-like voice laughing with someone, and then there was the sound of a gate opening, gratingly loud on Geralt’s sensitive ears, and then, suddenly, Roach jerked to a halt.

For a moment, Geralt was too stunned by the sudden change to do more than breath, loudly, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He could vaguely hear Jaskier’s good-natured voice speaking to someone, and then he felt the rope wound around his injured leg and back begin to slacked, eventually coming completely undone. Bereft of what had become his only source of support, Geralt could feel himself sagging to the side pathetically, hands too shaky and weak to do more than hold onto Roach’s mane as he squeezed his eyes shut against vertigo and nausea.

“Alright, Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice suddenly materialized uncomfortably close to the witcher’s ear, “Just lean on me. We’ll get you inside.”

Geralt felt his good arm being manhandled momentarily over a slim set of shoulders he recognized as belonging to the bard, and then a lithe arm encircled his waist. Geralt did his best to brace himself on the wall, his good leg, anything to take the pressure of Jaskier. The bard was by no means well built, and Geralt knew he was no small weight to bear. However, even his uninjured leg was beginning to buckle under the weight of fever and exhaustion, and very soon he found himself unceremoniously clinging to Jaskier’s supporting shoulder, his head resting on the bard’s chest as he tried to find his feet. 

Jaskier all but carried Geralt inside, with the witcher feeling too ill and weak to even notice the shocked and fearful whispers when they entered the inn. It was a novel experience, seeing a witcher laid low, and a none too encouraging sight. When they finally entered their shared room, the witcher found himself being placed gently in a chair, and he gladly accepted the support of the back of the chair on his aching head, letting out a groan of relief to be away from the bright lights and prying eyes of the common room of the inn. A tremor wracked his frame, and for the first time Geralt realized how truly poorly he felt. His left leg was stretched awkwardly in front of him, the broken knee swollen and too sore to allow him any range of motion in the appendage. His arm and shoulder were still bleeding sluggishly, cut down almost to the bone and inflamed with the redness that only accompanies infection, and his head spun and ached whenever he was moved too suddenly, although he was not able to open his eyes without being accosted by waves of dizziness. Turning his head slowly, Geralt saw Jaskier by the fireplace, fussing with a pot of water as he tried to boil some of the bandages Geralt always kept in his saddlebags. 

“Jaskier...I can take care of myself.”

Jaskier gave a derisive snort.

“Clearly. Because you did such a good job of that while you were lying half dead no more than three miles outside of town.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. I’m used...to looking after my own wounds.”

A tremor wracked Geralt’s frame again, causing him to groan as his left leg twitched involuntarily. Jaskier approached cautiously, and gently wiped a cold cloth across Geralt’s sweaty face, cleaning away some of the blood and grime. 

“You know, you don’t have to do these things alone anymore. And you’d probably heal a lot faster and a lot better if you just shut up for once and let someone take care of you.”

“Mmm.”

Geralt no longer had the energy to voice any feelings, negative or otherwise, towards Jaskier’s treatment of him, and, if he was being honest, there was something incredibly enjoyable about knowing he didn’t have to worry about stitching his own wounds, setting his own knee, or crawling away from the carcass of the siren as scavengers began to descend. He closed his eyes, and gave over to the hot, feverish tremors, and the comfort of Jaskier’s cool cloth as it wiped gently at his face. It seemed over all too soon, when Jaskier leaned back.

“I’m going to go see if we can find some hot water and get you warmed up a bit,” he said, more to himself, “Try not to fall asleep while I’m gone, you hit your head quite hard and I really do prefer you awake and alive, ornery as you may be.”

Geralt cracked an eye and grunted, the nausea having returned and the tremors, both from fever and too long spent in the cold, were beginning to render him nonverbal. When Jaskier left, Geralt wrapped his still-wet cloak around himself, shivering miserably and feeling too weak to do much about it. He wanted nothing more than to climb into the soft bed and fall asleep, but he knew if he did that now, infected wounds and all, he would most likely never wake up. So, he settled for trying to position himself in a way where he had to hold as little of his weight as humanly possible, closing his eyes, and waiting for the bard to return.

~0~

Geralt started awake to an extremely loud voice and someone, assumably Jaskier, shaking him rather harder than he thought necessary.

“Leave me be, Jaskier. M’tired.”

“Great Goddess, Geralt, you could have died,” Jaskier exclaimed, prying open one of Geralt’s eyelids to examine his pupils, “You definitely hit your head hard, and that means no sleeping. Besides, I had a hot bath made up for you, and it would be a shame to see it go to waste.”

Geralt glared momentarily at the bard, half grateful that he could finally subside into a hot bath that would hopefully relieve some of his feverish aches and pains, and half enraged that Jaskier had woken him from a blissfully painless rest.

“Just how do you propose I get over there?” Geralt nodded gingerly at the tub, cradling his head in his good hand. 

“All in good time, Geralt,” Jaskier’s mood seemed to have improved significantly now the witcher was awake and reasonably coherent, “I feel horrible enough for leaving you sitting in those soaking wet clothes, especially in your current state.”

And with that, Jaskier set about removing the witcher’s soaked boots, yanking his right one off first, and then turning to the swollen mess that was Geralt’s left leg and gently easing it down over aching, strained muscles. Geralt did his best to let him work with little comment, feeling as though since he had already dumped his dignity down the nearest well, he might as well just let the bard help him. He truly did feel better once he was out of the soaking clothes, although the air assaulted his skin painfully, and he rested almost all his weight on the bard. 

“Now, shall we get you warmed up?”

Geralt, half asleep and feeling too poorly to muster a response, simply allowed Jaskier to half carry him to the bathtub, let Jaskier guide first his bad leg, and then his good one over the edge, intersected by a tremulous moment during which the bard was the only thing standing between Geralt and a swift and intimate acquaintance with the floorboards. However, Jaskier eventually managed to lower the witcher into the steaming water, settling him so his head rested on the edge of the bath and his broken knee was supported as well, Then, he gently began cleaning the wound on Geralt’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Geralt, but this will probably hurt,” he stated regretfully as he poured some spirit on a cloth, offering the rest of it to the witcher in an small effort to numb the pain he was about to put his friend through.

Geralt fisted his hand against the edge of the bath.

“Nothing that...hasn’t happened before,” he stated weakly, wrapping his hand around Jaskier’s as the bard brought the cup of spirit to his mouth. Geralt gladly accepted it, allowing his mind to succumb as much as possible to the pleasant warmth the spirit spread through him, leaving even his aching joints pleasantly tingling. In a detached way, he reflected that it must have been a particularly strong brew to make him feel this way already. Then, a searing pain ripped through his arm, and he was left with his face almost grazing the surface of the water as he tried to breath through the searing pain of the alcohol entering the partly closed wound. 

“Oh, gods,” Jaskier exclaimed faintly, and Geralt could feel blood and pus trickling down his arm, “I think I’m going to have to cut this open to get it cleaned. Damn you and your quick healing.”

Leaning his head back, Geralt gave Jaskier a small nod of approval, mostly glad he didn’t have to do this all on his own. There was absolutely nothing pleasant about trying to clean a partially healed wound while off-balance and delirious from fever. He let his head drop forward again, resting his chin against his chest.

“I’m so sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier was now holding what appeared to be a red hot knife. He offered the witcher a little more of the spirit, which he sipped at without complaint, and then brought the knife down on the scabbing wound.

Geralt barely managed to stifle the gasping whimper that escaped his mouth as every muscle in his weakened body tensed, rebelling against the burning, slicing pain radiating from his shoulder and arm, He curled his head downward, sweat dripping of the end of his jaw and into the cooling bathwater below him. The knife’s movements seemed agonizingly slow, and about halfway through, Geralt lost his death grip on the side of the bath and slumped to the side, his head flopped over the edge, trembling and groaning, even as Jaskier apologized.

“I promise I’m almost done,” he murmured, setting the knife down and taking a moment to run a soothing hand through Geralt’s sweaty hair, conscious of the bruising on his head, “Just let me clean it quickly, and then I’ll fix up your knee and we can get you to bed.”

Geralt almost had to suppress another groan at the mention of his knee. He had almost forgotten the offending appendage amidst the haze of alcohol and fever. But he knew that if Jaskier didn’t move the kneecap back to its proper position, he could potentially lose the ability to walk normally, a death sentence for someone in his profession. 

The witcher faded in and out of hazy consciousness while Jaskier cleaned the infected wound on his shoulder, not having moved from his prone stance leaning against the edge of the bath, resting his head against the soothing coolness of the rim of the tub. Vaguely, he felt Jaskier wrap his side in soft bandages, and then bind his arm to his chest. Geralt sighed, not being able to remember the last time he had felt both so very ill and yet unworried. He allowed the tremors from the fever, still raging in his weakened body, to run their course, and closed his eyes. He had never been able to rest without worry when ill and injured before, and the feeling was almost euphoric. Although, that was probably the copious amounts of alcohol and the heat of his body talking.

“Alright, just your knee, now,” Jaskier had been talking the whole time he cleaned and bound Geralt’s arm and shoulder, but the witcher was too hazy to really pay attention, “I’m so sorry, Geralt, you look exhausted.”

“Mmmhmm.” Geralt sighed, trying to calm the little prickle of fear he felt in his chest at the thought of having his knee touched, let alone set.

“Is there anything I should know before I do this?” Jaskier asked nervously, fiddling with a bloody cloth in his shaking hands, “I don’t want to accidentally do something to make it worse. I’m...well, I’m not exactly a healer.”

Geralt sighed. He foggily remembered Jaskier saying once he had a sigh for every possible situation, and he very much wished that was the case now. His mouth felt stuffed with cotton, and words took more effort than he was currently willing to expend.

“The bone...may have already begun healing,” he slurred, the drink making his tongue thick, “You may need to...put your back into it a bit. Don’t stop, even if I yell.”

Jaskier gulped audibly. 

“Ohhhkay,” he breathed, “Keep pushing, no matter what you do.”

Geralt nodded shortly, and used the remainder of his dwindling strength to brace himself against the bath once more as Jaskier placed two hands on either side of his kneecap, and began to push it back into place shakily.

“Jaskier…” the witcher sighed, “If you keep pushing on that like you’re trying to move a very small pebble, we’re going to be here all night, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m beginning to feel very poorly. You’re going to have to put some force into it.”

Jaskier looked surprised, and Geralt knew the spirits had loosened his tongue. Normally, he never would have admitted to feeling the way he truly did. However, the bard took a deep breath, braced himself, and pushed as hard as he could, causing Geralt to throw back his head in a silent howl as the joint slid back into alignment, and tense his already cramped hand against the rim of the bath. As Jaskier let go, Geralt felt himself slide down the side of the bath, his vision swimming and growing dim, and the last thing he was aware of before he lost his grip on consciousness was the bard’s slender arms wrapping around his shoulders and leaning his aching head on Jaskier’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your lovely responses to the first chapter! After taking a few years' hiatus from writing, I forgot how wonderful it is to post something and get feedback on it. You guys really made my day. I should have the next chapter up within the next two or three days. Please feel free to drop a comment if you enjoyed this as well, they really motivate me to keep writing!  
> Thanks for dropping by!


	3. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier deals with some guilty feelings surrounding the circumstances of their current situation, and Geralt is sleepy and high on pain meds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling stressed I wrote Geralt very OOC in this chapter so any and all helpful comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you all for your kind words so far, please enjoy this newest installment!

As Geralt slumped into him, gasping as he tried to breathe through the pain in his leg, it was all Jaskier could do to catch his witcher as his arms trembled. He felt sick at having caused Geralt this much pain, and there was guilt gnawing in his stomach for a different reason as well. He had stayed behind at the inn during this hunt because it was too rainy outside, too cold, and loath as he was to admit it, the last thing he had wanted to do was follow Geralt out into the storm. And now, the witcher was injured, in pain, and probably ill, and Jaskier couldn’t help but feel that, as useless as he was in a fight, he was partially responsible.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, tucking a strand of muddy silver hair away from Geralt’s sweaty face. 

Logically, Jaskier knew that, had Geralt been conscious, he would have told the bard that injury was an occupational hazard. However, Jaskier’s heart ached for the pained crease in the witcher’s brow, the shuddering breaths he took even in unconsciousness, the way his uninjured hand was fisted in the bard’s fine silk shirt. He was also beginning to shiver quite violently, which shook Jaskier from his reverie and reminded him that he was sitting with an injured man in a now cold bath after he had spent a night out in the rain.

Hurriedly, Jaskier ripped apart the last couple of bandages into smaller portions, and wrapped them as gently as possible around Geralt’s blue-black, swollen knee, trying to ignore the groan that escaped his witcher’s parted lips even in unconsciousness. He wrapped the knee as tightly as he could, and braced it carefully with some straight sticks he had the presence of mind to keep in his pack after Geralt had splinted the bard’s broken wrist after a particularly nasty encounter with a former suitor several months ago. Looking back, Jaskier smiled as he remembered the witcher’s flashing eyes, clearly furious even as he did his best to handle the bard’s wrist with excruciating care. There had been something very charming about Geralt’s awkwardness around the vulnerability of the human physique, and his painstaking efforts to keep Jaskier comfortable (going so far as to let him ride Roach, even though there was nothing wrong with his legs) that made Jaskier want nothing more than to return the feelings of comfort and warmth he had felt then. Gods knew the witcher had not experienced nearly enough of that in his long life. 

With this in mind, Jaskier braced himself to try and lift the unconscious witcher out of the bath, not wanting the violent shivering to go on any longer than necessary. He painstakingly wrapped a soft cotton towel, courtesy of the inn, around his friend’s trembling shoulders, and then ducked underneath Geralt’s good arm, wrapping a thin arm around his bandaged stomach. With strength he barely knew he possessed and even more rarely had a chance to use, Jaskier managed to stumble across the wooden floor to the bed he had occupied last night, doing his best not to dump Geralt to unceremoniously on the mattress.

“You need to stop eating so much,” he teased lightly, mostly to lighten his own heavy heart. He knew Geralt rarely ate unless there was enough for him after both Jaskier and Roach had eaten, and it was the cause of much consternation for Jaskier, who didn’t know how Geralt could be expected to fight anything two days starved. 

Gently, so as not to wake his friend, Jaskier pulled the sheets up over the witcher’s shivering frame, and laid several more soft blankets he had found on in the wardrobe over top of the sheets, deeply concerned about the soft shade of blue tingeing his friend’s paler-than-normal cheeks. However, Geralt’s skin was bursting with heat, and cold sweat dripped from his brow, even into the head injury that was surely still causing him trouble.

Jaskier retrieved a spare strip of bandage from next to the bath, and dipped it in the now cold water. He then returned to Geralt’s side, noticing with mounting anxiety that the witcher’s hands were twisting anxiously around the sheets, and he was tossing his head slightly from side to side, brow furrowed with anxiety. Jaskier wiped the cloth across Geralt’s tensed forehead, wiping the sweat away from the gash in his head to keep it from stinging and causing his friend pain. Folding the cloth carefully, he rested it on Geralt’s head, and went about his next task.

Ever uncomfortable with silence, Jaskier tried to strike up a conversation with himself as he went about his work, sure that if Geralt were conscious he would have rolled his eyes in what Jaskier liked to think was fond exasperation. He could almost hear the witcher grumbling about Jaskier’s aversion to peace and quiet.

“You’re lucky the townspeople here were generous with their coin last night,” he rambled, trying to fill the heavy, dead air, “Or we’d be out on the road in the rain, and that’s no place for you to be right now. I would’ve had to build us some sort of shelter, and it probably would’ve collapsed, and then we’d be even worse off than we are now.”

Jaskier proceeded to fold his cloak and a couple of his less colourful shirts into a sort of pillow, and he apprehensively approached Geralt, with the intention of propping up his broken knee to keep the pain to a minimum. He remembered the witcher sharing this particular piece of wisdom with him after a hunt during which he had twisted his ankle, and subsequently spent the next several hours with it propped against the side of a tree while he waited for the ligaments to realign themselves.

“I know...you’re more than capable of building a half-decent shelter,” a tired voice stated.

“Great Goddess! Geralt! Give me some warning next time before you decide to come back to the land of the living.”

Geralt chuckled weakly, his eyes cloudy with fever and very clearly staring at a point which was several inches above Jaskier’s head. 

“I’ll be sure...to let you know,” he breathed, wincing as he shifted his shoulder, looking mildly surprised to find his arm bound to his chest, “What happened...bard?”

The feelings of alarm which Jaskier had successfully kept at bay up until this point were now beginning to return with a vengeance.

“What do you mean, Geralt? I found you with the siren just a couple miles outside of town. You were conscious for a decent part of it.”

Geralt blinked his hazy eyes.

“M’dizzy, Jaskier. And fuck, my leg hurts. Why does my leg hurt?”

Jaskier knew that Geralt would never admit to feeling pain or anything less than perfectly fine unless he was in very much pain, delirious, or both. Unfortunately, Jaskier suspected this current situation was the latter, and being compounded by exhaustion and a bad hit to the head.

“You got hurt killing a siren,” Jaskier explained patiently, trying to keep the fear out of his voice, “Your knee is broken, and you’ve a bad concussion.”

“Mmm…must be why there’s two of you.” Geralt closed his eyes, looking vaguely queasy.

Jaskier sighed. It was going to be a long night if Geralt was going to spend it this confused, especially since the bard was reluctant to let him sleep too long with a head wound this bad. Trying to be as gentle as possible, he lifted the witcher’s bandaged leg and slid his makeshift pillow underneath it, relieved to hear Geralt sigh slightly as the pressure was taken off his knee.

“That...feels better,” he murmured, amber eyes still unfocused and confused, and his good hand searching weakly across his forehead, clearly searching out the damp cloth, “I’m tired, Jaskier. Why’m I so tired?”

Jaskier had experienced enough knocks to his own head, especially in his recent years of more dangerous travel with the witcher, to know that Geralt would both likely not remember any of this in the morning, and that the exhaustion that came with this kind of physical trauma was no laughing matter.

“That’s just the concussion talking, Geralt,” he readjusted the cloth that the witcher had knocked askew, “I’ll make you some tea with something for the pain, and then you can try to sleep a bit, so long as you promise to wake up when I need you to.”

Geralt still hasn’t opened his eyes, but Jaskier takes the slight flick of his hand as a sign of acknowledgement. He turns away, crushing up some valerian root into the last of the hot water from the fire. On second thought, he also extracts a small vial from inside his pack, and empties into the cup the last of the lavender oil he would normally wear to a particularly fine courtly evening. However, the bard has also heard lavender relieves pain, and if the sacrifice of some of his perfume will bring Geralt some relief, it is a price he is more than willing to pay.

Carefully, Jaskier approaches Geralt, knowing how confused the witcher already is and how Jaskier pouncing on him unawares will probably not help anyone.

“Just drink this, and then you can sleep. I’ll wake you up in a few hours to check on you.”

Geralt nods, still not opening his eyes, and allows Jaskier to settle in behind him, propping his head slightly on the bard’s stomach, and wrapping his hand shakily around the mug as Jaskier guides it towards his mouth.

“Is that valerian?” he asks, grumbling slightly, “Would’ve slept fine...without help. Been a few weeks since I did.”

Jaskier sighs, smoothing back Geralt’s hair and deciding not to take up that particular issue with the witcher right now. They had been travelling separately for several weeks prior to this meeting because Jaskier had needed to return to Oxenfurt, and he was not pleased to know Geralt’s usually deplorable levels of self care had slipped to outrightly suicidal. However, he would save his well-meaning lecture for when the witcher was capable of listening without drifting off.

“Go to sleep, Geralt. Trust me, your head will thank you.”

Jaskier slips out from under Geralt’s head, lowering him back onto the lumpy goose down pillow, and almost immediately he can hear the witcher’s breaths even out into the slow monotones of sleep.

~0~

A half hour later, Jaskier was slumped in the armchair previously occupied by Geralt’s cloak, trying to keep himself awake by composing a ballad. There was still a sick feeling in his stomach every time he looked over at the sleeping witcher, feeling as though he could have prevented all of this had he simply chosen to go out in the storm instead of stay behind at the inn. Logically, he was still aware that this made little sense. However, Jaskier felt ashamed. He did not want to write this particular event into a ballad, not ever. And so, he sat, quill in hand, empty page staring blankly back at him as he plucked idly at the strings of his lute. 

“Fuck. This is useless,” he grumbled, reflecting briefly that he was beginning to sound more like his largely nonverbal witcher.

Frustrated, he tossed his notebook halfheartedly across the room, watching it skitter into a dark and dusty corner and biting down the guilt at abusing one of his most treasured possessions so. He stood to retrieve the book, ghosting his hand over Geralt’s forehead as he passed by, feeling relieved that the heat seemed to have lessened a bit, even though his friend was still drenched in sweat and twisting uncomfortably in his sleep, face caught in a grimace despite the valerian root, which was supposed to keep him unconscious and free of pain. 

Upon the retrieval of his notebook, Jaskier laid both his lute and quill to rest upon the windowsill, staring melancholically outside as the rain drizzled miserably against the pane. Below, he could see Roach and the dark mare he had ridden earlier sheltered in the stable, their noses touching softly as though caught in an intimate moment. Jaskier allowed himself a small smile at the thought, glad that both horses were warm and out of the rain. He knew Geralt would never forgive him if he left Roach to fend for herself in such conditions.

Turning back to his uneasily sleeping friend, Geralt supposed it was probably time to wake him and check to make sure that his head wound was not causing any more alarming damage. Though he was loath to do so, the bard gently placed his hand on Geralt’s good shoulder and squeezed it gently, grimacing as he did so.

“Geralt? It’s just me. Just wanting to make sure you haven’t lost any more of those precious marbles of yours in your sleep.”

The witcher blinked blearily, and Jaskier noticed with some satisfaction that his pupils were now adjusting evenly to the light, and his eyes no longer tracked over the bard’s shoulder, but directly at his face. Damn witchers and their quick healing.

“Fuck, I hurt.” was all Jaskier got by way of a response, but it was much less slurred and much more characteristic than Geralt’s earlier complaints, so the bard let it slide.

“Good to see you’re feeling more cheerful,” he quipped, mostly relieved his witcher was no longer as confused, “Do you need anything for the pain? Perhaps a potion, now you’re lucid enough to tell me which one to give you?”

“Mmm...took too many potions already today. Best leave it.”

“Very well. I have a bit of feverfew in my pack, for your knee and your head. That won’t react with anything, will it?”

“No, s’fine. Can I sleep now?”

Jaskier returned to Geralt with some of the crushed feverfew in his hand, and gave it to the witcher to chew.

“If there’s nothing else you need. In the morning I’ll see about getting you some food, gods know how long it’s been since you ate something decent.”

Geralt made a face that Jaskier could only describe as a combination of trepidation and disgust. Guessing at its cause, the bard added,

“Sleep and the valerian will help with the nausea, and I know you’re already healing much faster than I could ever dream of. You’ll be well enough to have some broth in the morning.”

His tone was the type that brooked no argument, and Geralt had long ago learned that when Jaskier set his mind to something, particularly something relating to Geralt’s own health, there was little the witcher could do to set him off track. He closed his eyes and slumped back into the pillows, residual tremors from his fever still wracking his frame.

“Try and get some rest,” Jaskier said, turning to hide his fond smile, “You may not want to admit it, but I know you’re still feeling poorly. I’ll be by the fire if you need anything.”

Geralt shifted, wincing as his knee twisted.

“Perhaps you’re right.” he muttered, so low that Jaskier half thought he imagined it.

The fond smile grew slightly bigger, and the bard draped another blanket over Geralt, gently adjusting the pillows under his leg so he could shift onto his side, and feeling no small relief when Geralt once again sank into a deep sleep. The guilt still sat there, lurking below the surface emotions of gladness that his witcher was alright, but for now, Jaskier tried to convince himself he had done everything he could to make it alright again. He settled in front of the fire, allowing the flames to mesmerize him until the emotional and physical turmoil of the past day eventually dragged him under, his breath evening even as the rain drizzled on outside.


	4. Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is tasked with finding a place to camp when his and Geralt's welcome at the inn runs out. He also seeks forgiveness and a little communication takes place.

The rest of that night passed by in a blur for Jaskier. Every couple hours, he would jolt awake, desperately afraid that Geralt had either grown much worse or simply died while Jaskier was fast asleep. This would be followed by Jaskier gently shaking Geralt awake, checking his pupils, trying to eke a few words out of him about his well being, and then allowing him to slip back into his unsettled rest. Then, Jaskier would return to his chair, doze off, and jolt awake to repeat the whole cycle all over again. It was only when light finally began to stream through the window that the exhausted bard realized that morning had come, and that the drizzling rain of the past week had finally ceased. Feeling in slightly better spirits, he stood, stretching his aching joints, and wandered to the window to check and make sure that both Roach and his borrowed horse were still well.

Satisfied, Jaskier turned back to check on Geralt, torn between finding himself some food and making sure his witcher didn’t wake alone after a restless, fevered night. While Jaskier was decently sure the witcher’s fever had broken a couple hours before dawn, he knew from experience that the residual effects of being so ill were often both unpleasant and disorienting.

“Geralt,” he placed a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, trying not to startle him, “It’s morning, and I just wanted to check on you before I go find us some food.”

Geralt didn’t open his eyes, but one pale brown crept up slightly, and his hand twitched.

“Us?” he grumbled, voice groggy and heavy with sleep, “I’ll not be eating for a good while.”

The bard suppressed a huff of indignation, realizing that this was probably one of the few times when Geralt’s refusal to eat was actually for legitimate and understandable reasons, especially considering he had yet to open his eyes. 

“Very well,” he grouched, “But you will drink some tea with painkillers, and let me check your wounds to make sure you’re not about to fuck off and meet your maker.”

Geralt made a noise Jaskier could have sworn was akin to amusement, and finally opened his eyes, squinting against the meager sunlight that managed to work its way through the grime that coated the window. He blinked several times, bringing up his good hand to rub weakly at his eyes.

“Mmmm.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad to see we’re back to the usual program of grunting and monosyllabic answers as opposed to actual human interaction. Good to see you getting back to your normal self.”

Geralt huffed and closed his eyes again, clearly in pain from the watery light filtering into the room. Satisfied that he was not in any imminent danger, Jaskier exited their tiny room and jogged down the creaky stairs into the common room of the inn, which was mostly barren at this hour. Dusty shafts of sunlight filtered in through the slightly cleaner windows, and a couple of patrons sat at the bar, nursing a pint or a slice of bread, clearly indulging in hair of the dog methods to work off the previous night’s revelries. Jaskier approached the barmaid, a pretty girl with flaxen hair and rosy cheeks, and asked for bread and butter, as well as some tea to bring back upstairs for Geralt.

The girl stared at him with frightened eyes, and with barely more than a squeak, she disappeared into the back room, leaving the bard nonplussed. However, when she returned moments later, Jaskier’s stomach sank into his boots. A very large angry looking man, probably the girl’s father and the owner of the inn, followed her to where Jaskier stood, leaning away unconsciously from the intimidating figure.

“Can I help you?” he asked, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

“S’matter of fact, you can,” the innkeeper drawled, “I’ve had just about enough of you and your unnatural friend turning reputable people away from this establishment. I’ve let you stay the night, and from what I’ve heard, your friend will be back to his dangerous ways sooner than any ordinary man. So it’s time for both of you to get out. You’ll find no more hospitality here.”

In his years of travelling with the witcher, Jaskier had become more than adept at dealing with closed-minded people who were unable to see beyond their own fears. He knew Geralt would never react to such sentiment, especially not violently, and that he expected Jaskier to do the same no matter the circumstances. However, the bard had to clench his fists together to keep from driving them into the innkeeper’s gut. Geralt was barely able to open his eyes, mounting Roach and camping in the woods was inconceivable.

“I think you overestimate a witcher’s ability to heal from life-threatening wounds and a night out in the freezing rain. We can’t leave tonight. He won’t survive.”

The innkeep shrugged.

“One less beast in the world isn’t a weight on my conscience. You’re to be gone by midday, or I’ll have the mayor set the soldiers on you.”

By this point, Jaskier was seeing red. He had already failed Geralt when he left him alone on a dangerous hunt, and that mistake had cost the witcher dearly. He wasn’t about to simply back down and let this man turn them out into the cold. However, as he was about to open his mouth to spew a very strongly worded retort, he felt a heavy hand rest on his shoulder; so heavy his knees had to brace under the weight.

“Leave it,” Geralt’s voice was clearly strained, but it got the point across, “It’s not...worth the fight. I don’t want to kill anyone here.”

Jaskier wanted very much to point out that Geralt wasn’t in any condition to be able to kill anything, but he was too shocked to find the witcher next to him at all. Geralt’s face was deathly pale, and he was balanced carefully on his right leg, the left one bent just enough to keep it from coming in contact with the floor. He breathed heavily, and slumped against Jaskier and the wall for support the moment he had said his part, eyes flickering shut.

“See,” the innkeeper said, with a note of triumph in his voice, “he’s clearly well enough to go.”

Jaskier turned his back on the bar, focusing all his attention on his witcher as Geralt’s consciousness clearly began to wax and wane and his eyes drifted in and out of focus.

“You arse,” he whispered harshly, slipping under Geralt’s good arm, “I had that handled. How the fuck did you even get down here? Why the fuck did you even come down here?”

“Not worth...the fight,” Geralt breathed painfully, “Could tell you weren’t going to leave it.”

“You’re stupid, you know that,” Jaskier sighed, half fondly, “I don’t know where you plan on us sleeping now we’ve been kicked out of the only warm, dry place we had. And don’t tell me you can ride, because that’s a bunch of horseshit and you know it as well as me.”

Jaskier helped Geralt limp back up to their room, leaning heavily both on the wall and the bard to compensate for the fact that every time his left leg so much as brushed against the ground he would release a strangled sound of agony. The moment they re-entered the room and were well away from prying eyes, Geralt sank shakily down onto the bed, slumping back against the wall as he held his side. Jaskier could see his jaw muscles working as he breathed through the pain.

“Gods, Geralt. I don’t even know how you’re sitting. Do you need help lying back down while I pack our things?”

For a moment, it seemed as though Geralt had lost consciousness completely. However, he eventually nodded, leaning heavily against Jaskier’s arm as the bard eased him back against the pillows, elevating his leg on the makeshift cloak-pillow again. 

“By the way, I haven’t forgiven you for just letting us get kicked out of this shithole. If you die of some horrible infection while we’re out in the wild, it’s not my fault. We can discuss this more fully when you no longer look like death warmed up.”

“‘M a witcher,” Geralt mumbled, “I’ve survived worse.”

That particular statement was one which Jaskier tried to spend as little time as possible thinking about. It made him sick to his stomach to think of his witcher, alone in the wilds, fighting fever and injury without someone to even be there with him and offer him help. He turned his back, stirred together the last of the pain killing herbs, and presented the tea to Geralt, who downed it in two gulps.

“Good,” Jaskier said, taking the cup back and beginning to organize their things for a hasty departure, “You’ll need as much painkiller as possible if you’re going to ride today.”

Geralt just nodded and leaned back against the pillows with a groan, using his good hand to adjust his leg to a more comfortable position. Jaskier was more than aware that, normally, Geralt would have insisted on packing, especially his own potions and clothes. It concerned the bard more than he was willing to admit that the witcher hadn't even mentioned Jaskier’s hands being all over his weapons and potions.

~0~

Half an hour later, Jaskier stood in the courtyard of the inn, surrounded by bags, bedrolls, and various odds and ends that made up his and Geralt’s life on the road. He rarely ever felt this out of his depth, usually it was the witcher who did all the meticulous packing, fitting every bag into a perfectly corresponding spot on Roach’s back. However, with Geralt having fallen back into an uneasy sleep upstairs, it was up to Jaskier to fit all their belongings onto the two horses in front of him. He had made the executive decision that, in order to get a safe distance from the town, they would both need horses, and therefore he had paid the innkeeper a frankly ridiculous premium to keep the mare lent to him several days ago. It also made organizing their things far easier, Jaskier reflected as he piled his own belongings onto the mare’s broad, glossy back.

Having successfully piled their various odds and ends into a relatively stable looking pile aboard both horses, Jaskier sloshed back through the mud and into the inn, shooting a dark look at the innkeeper as he passed, noticing the man’s distinct look of satisfaction as he saw that their departure was imminent. He jogged back to their tiny room, muttering obscenities under his breath.

Upon entry, the first thing Jaskier noticed was that Geralt was no longer in bed. His friend was sitting painfully on the windowsill, half in a black shirt, struggling to pull it over his head one handed. The bard had to suppress a small smile, crossing the room in three strides and pulling the shirt over Geralt’s silver hair, heart skipping a beat as the witcher’s eyes met his through disheveled hair and the remnants of fever. The witcher grunted in thanks, and yanked on his black trousers roughly, stopping to steady himself momentarily as he pulled them over his heavily bandaged knee, eyelids fluttering as he braced himself against the windowpane before tucking his shirt in and doing up the buttons.

“You know you could have waited until I was back to do that,” Jaskier grumbled as he retrieved their cloaks from the chair, “Instead of being held hostage by your own shirt.”

Geralt shot him a venomous look, making a swipe for his cloak without getting up from the windowsill.

“Ah, ah,” Jaskier danced away lightly, “If you insist on sitting there when you could be lying down, the least you could do is put your leg up while I get dressed. I’ll help you with your jacket and cloak when I’m done.”

Sighing, Geralt beckoned Jaskier over.

“If you wouldn’t mind…” he gestured at his swollen knee, brows furrowing at his own weakness.

“What...oh! Of course.” Jaskier took Geralt’s leg in his arms as gently as he could and rested it on the bed, eliciting a groan from the witcher.

“I really don’t know how you expect to ride today,” he said concernedly as he donned his own colourful silk jacket and heavy woolen cloak, “You can barely sit up straight. Are you sure you can’t just you know...magic away the innkeeper for another few nights?”

Jaskier waved his arms vaguely at this, feeling rather helpless. 

“I was getting to that,” Geralt all but growled, looking profoundly upset, “You’ll need to ride behind me today. I’ll find a place to camp.”

Jaskier nodded his assent, bringing over Geralt’s black coat and cloak. He had expected to need to do this, although he was still quite surprised at how forthcoming the witcher was being about his needs, and suspected the herbs Jaskier had been putting in his tea had something to do with it. Carefully, he wrapped Geralt’s jacket around his bad arm, which was still bound to his side, and helped him thread his good arm through the other sleeve. Based on Geralt’s expression, the ache that often accompanied fevers of his calibre was still well and alive within his flesh. Jaskier gently wrapped the cloak around his friend as well, buttoning it and pulling up the hood to obscure the bruises and glassiness of his eyes. Best that the angry villagers not know how injured the witcher truly was. He also noted, with some satisfaction, that the cloak did an excellent job of obscuring Geralt’s unusable arm.

“Now,” Jaskier began in his best authoritative voice, “I don’t give two fucks who is around to hear, if there is anything wrong with you, you stop me and tell me. Understood?”

Geralt shot him a look, and proceeded to peel himself off the windowsill with a death grip on the wall to keep his weight off his bad leg.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just let me help, you stubborn arse.”

Jaskier slid easily under Geralt’s arm, a position he had been finding himself in fairly regularly these days, and concealed a large exhale of effort as the witcher shifted his weight off the wall and onto him. 

“Do not...use that leg. I’ll get you out to Roach.”

Through a very awkward combination of Geralt half-limping on his good leg and Jaskier trembling under his friend’s considerable weight, they managed to make their way out to the horses, where Roach bent her knees slightly again to allow her rider easy mounting. Patting her nose affectionately, Jaskier gave Geralt a leg up, nervously watching him sway at the change in altitude once he got into the saddle, clinging to Roach’s mane with his good hand. Thanking the gods he had already tied his mare to a lead behind Roach, Jaskier mounted up behind the witcher, eliciting a grunt of pain, and nudged the horses into a gentle walk, not willing to jolt Geralt’s wounds by going any faster. His leg already hung at an awkward angle, and both his arms were wrapped protectively around his bandaged side.

“Just lean against me until we find somewhere to camp,” Jaskier murmured softly, “I know this is horrible, you don’t need to make it worse on yourself.”

Although Geralt managed to keep his seat relatively well while they were within eyeshot of curious villagers, the minute they entered the forest he slumped back against the bard, gasping out a sigh.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “Fucking leg.”

Jaskier snorted at what he thought was a very apt appraisal of the witcher’s current situation.

“Indeed,” he agreed.

As he continued to guide Roach into the forest, though, a soft smile graced his features as he felt Geralt’s slow breaths even out, pain killing herbs and exhaustion pulling him under once again. Jaskier hoped Geralt’s trust in him was not misplaced as he ventured on, scouting out a place to make camp for the nights to come.

~0~

Jaskier was crouched over a crackling fire when he finally heard stirring behind him, and turned to see Geralt awake and blinking tiredly.

“Well, good morning.” he smiled softly, “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Geralt grunted, shifting himself painfully to a nearby tree to support what was probably an aching back, and grimacing as he rolled his shoulder tentatively, “But I’ll live.”

Amber eyes roved across the camp, taking in Roach, who was untacked and happily eating her dinner of oats, to the pot boiling gently over the fire.

“Impressive, no?” Jaskier grinned slightly.

Geralt nodded, removing his cloak carefully and folding it again under his swollen knee.

“It’s a good spot,” he acknowledged, “Well done, bard. Seeing as how we’ll probably be here for a while.”

“No trouble. It was the least I could do, after…”

“After what?” Even exhausted and injured, Geralt’s eyes bored holes into Jaskier’s, not missing a beat of his hesitance.

“Well...I did leave you alone and injured in that rain storm for a whole night,” Jaskier swallowed back the pain it cost him to admit this, “Perhaps...if I hadn’t been so selfish...if I had come along with you, you wouldn’t be like this now.”

There was a long moment of silence as Geralt leaned his head back against the tree, closing his eyes and running a hand over the nearly healed cut on his forehead.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” his eyes flitted about uncomfortably, clearly struggling to find words, “If you hadn’t found me...well, I would not be nearly as well and comfortable as I am now. I...I’ve had many times of being in similar situations alone. And many of them could have ended in my death. It is more than enough to simply be able to recover my strength without worrying about Roach, or where my next meal is coming from, or what scavengers may come to feast on the body of whatever injured me. You’ve done plenty.”

Jaskier felt his mouth drop slightly. He had never heard Geralt say so much, and he was surprised at his ability to string words together so elegantly even though he was clearly still under the influence of strong pain killing herbs. The bard stood, walked over to sit down next to Geralt, and planted a gentle kiss on this silver head.

“I’m glad you’re not alone, too,” he murmured, smoothing the soft hair back, “Rest, and I’ll wake you when I’ve found some dinner.”

The witcher groaned softly, a pleasurable sound as he leaned back and exhaled gingerly. And Jaskier felt a weight fly off his shoulders and into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thank you all so much for reading and leaving kudos and kind comments! All your responses have left me feeling inspired, and I can say that I definitely have a couple more fics in the works along similar lines! In the meantime, I really hope you enjoyed this final chapter; please leave any comments or feedback you have down below. Once again, thanks for all your encouragement, and I'm looking forwards to posting more here soon!


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